Meanwhile Mi‑yeong and Hana have zero Star Wars knowledge, but they still show up to every con. They don’t know what’s happening, but they still support the girls.
[Beware: shocking amount of fluff AND angst below the cut. The first picture is worth >1500 words.]
Rumi had mixed feelings about bathtime.
She didn't like that bathtime meant it was almost bedtime, which meant no more coloring, or playing with her little zoo of stuffed animals, or scampering around the vegetable garden with a stick in each hand, in search of "demon" bugs to whack away from the cabbages. No more adventures until tomorrow.
She liked that at bathtime, she got to play with her wind-up sea turtle that paddled itself around the tub with a plishplishplashplishplash for ten seconds before she had to twist its tail to wind it up again. She also got to play with her yellow rubber duck, which if she squeezed it above the tub then held it underwater, spat a stream of water from its bill when she squished it again. Sometimes the duck "decided" to be mischievous, and squirted water at Rumi's guardian as she washed her hair. Celine would always GASP in exaggerated shock and poke at Rumi's button nose and cheeks, scolding "Naughty duck, naughty duck!" in a singsongy voice that made Rumi squeal with delight.
Rumi really liked when Celine washed her hair. She liked the fresh, minty smell of the 2 in 1 shampoo/conditioner and how it felt soft and pillowy as Celine massaged it into her scalp. Her fingertips moved in spirals all over Rumi's head, so soothing that it always made her yawn (even though she was DEFINITELY not sleepy yet, thank you very much!). She didn't like getting the sudsy lather on her face, so Celine was careful to place a protective hand on her forehead, like the brim of a hat, shielding her from the cups of warm water she poured over her head to rinse out the shampoo.
Rumi hated when she finally had to stand up and leave the safety of the steamy bathwater, because the air always - always - felt freezing cold, like teeny-tiny needles pricking at her exposed skin. She instinctively crossed her arms and tensed up, as if she could shrink away from the chill.
Luckily, she never had to endure it for more than a few seconds before Celine rescued her. Her guardian wrapped warm hands around her back, lifting her from her armpits —"Up up up!" Rumi said, to which Celine replied, "Up she flies!"—and gently set her down on the bath mat. Before she could so much as shiver, the fluffiest towel they owned had been dropped over her head, covering her face.
She screeched at the sudden darkness. "Eeek! Ceee-Ceeee!"
"Where is little Rumi-ya?" Her guardian's voice sounded muffled as she used the towel's corners to wipe off Rumi's feet.
Rumi wiggled her toes to assist. "Can't find me!"
She felt Celine's hands on the outside of the towel, moving rapidly up and down her arms and back to dry her off quickly. "Is that her voice I hear?"
"Not me!" Rumi exclaimed. She tried again, this time disguising her voice by adopting an impossibly high, squeaky pitch. "I'm not Rumi, I'm a mousey!"
Her guardian laughed aloud, the sound so lively and buoyant Rumi couldn't stop herself from giggling too. "I don't know, Mousey, I'm pretty good at finding things," she said, feeling around Rumi's fabric-covered head. "Hmmm...those aren't mouse ears, those are little girl ears! Why does Mousey have little girl ears?"
"I don't knoooow!" she squeaked again.
"And where is your mouse tail?"
"I don't have a tail!"
"I think Rumi-ya is hiding under there with you, Mousey," Celine concluded. "You know, Rumi used to have a tail like a mouse, but it fell off right after she was born."
"WHAT?!" Rumi shifted the towel and stuck her face out. "That's not true! I never had a tail!"
"There's little Rumi-ya!" Her guardian laughed again at Rumi's indignant expression. "No, little girls don't have tails. Let's get you bundled up."
Her pout immediately changed into an eager grin and she hopped in place. "Bundled up!"
Celine nodded and began to wrap the towel more tightly around the little girl's body, almost as tight as when she'd swaddle her as an infant. Rumi loved this part, after bathtime, because she got to feel so cozy and warm and safe.
She also loved it because—
"Bundling the baby, the baby, the baby, bundling the baby so she doesn't get a cold!" Celine sang cheerfully as she scooped Rumi up and cradled her in her arms. "Wee oo, wee-ee, wee deedle-de dum dee-dee..."
Her guardian's voice was clear and steady and bright and warm and the sound transfigured into strands of living light and it wound around them before Rumi's eyes and it wrapped around her heart like a hug and she wanted to hug back with all the strength she had in her pint-sized body.
She chimed in when Celine repeated the tune. "Bundling the baby, the baby, the baby, bundling the baby so she doesn't get a cold!"
The strands of sound-light-song (CeCe called it the "ha-moon?" "hom-noon?") brightened and danced in mid-air and Rumi wasn't sure how but she felt that it was giggling and playing alongside her as she raised her bouncy child-voice.
They had sung all the way back to their bedroom when she looked up at Celine. She was doing something strange with her face while she sang: blinking a lot, looking around like her eyes couldn't decide where to land, not-quite-smiling. But when she looked down and saw Rumi studying her, she smiled again. "Pajama time," she said, setting Rumi down. The song-light threads began to fade from the air.
Rumi successfully put her pajamas on...almost all by herself. That made her remember something.
"CeCe?"
"Yes, Rumi?" She glanced up from fastening the buttons of the girl's nightshirt.
"I'm not a baby," she said.
Her guardian finished with the buttons. The corners of her mouth quirked up a little as she looked up. "Oh? What do you mean?"
"'Cause I'm three now," she said gravely. "I'm not a baby - I'm a kid."
"You are three. Three whole years..." Something odd was happening with her face again. She cleared her throat and smiled. "Three years of little Rumi-ya, not so little anymore."
Rumi nodded, pleased to be understood.
"We don't have to stop singing the song now that you're three. You can still be somebody's baby, even if you're not a little baby." She patted Rumi's tiny mattress, and the girl clambered up. "And I certainly don't want you catching a cold."
"Oh-kaaay," Rumi said, sighing contentedly as she pulled the blankets up to her chin, a stuffed bear clutched under her arm. Celine tucked her in, then sat cross-legged on the floor next to her as she always did at bedtime.
"Am I your baby?" She yawned through the question.
When Rumi opened her eyes, her guardian was making a weird face again. Frowning...but not? Her jaw clenched, her eyes grew wide. Her mouth twitched, opening and closing slightly.
"Well...You're my..." Celine pursed her lips and bowed her head towards the floor. She inhaled deeply. She exhaled slowly. Absently, she twisted a ring on her right hand.
She sounds like that when she gets hurt sometimes. Rumi didn't understand what was wrong. Doesn't she know? If I'm not CeCe's baby, then whose? She looked down at her bear, squeezing it tight to her body as her lip started to quiver.
Do I not belong to anyone?
"Rumi?"
She glanced back up at Celine, sniffling. This time, her guardian wore an expression Rumi knew well: worry. But when Rumi met her eyes - much shinier than normal - the worry lessened, and a sad smile forced its way onto her face. Can a smile be sad?
Why did it make her feel like crying?
"Do I..." Her lip wobbled pitifully. "Am I not anybody's baby?"
Celine's eyes widened. "Oh, no, Rumi-ya, that's not—" She folded back the covers and pulled the little girl into her arms just as she started to cry. "Shh, I've got you..."
"Why—" She hiccupped. "W-why can't I b-be your baby?"
"I'm sorry, Rumi, that's not what I meant," her guardian said. "It's just...complicated."
"But why?"
She felt Celine kiss the crown of her head. "I'm sorry, Rumi," she repeated. "Most kids...they're their mom and dad's babies. You were your mother's baby at first, when you were born."
"Your friend?" Rumi pressed her cheek to Celine's chest. Her shirt was damp with tears. "You said she isn't here anymore."
"Yes, your mother, the person who made you. She...she died, which is why she isn't here anymore to look after you."
"I'm not her baby," Rumi said, still not sure she understood.
"No, you are, it's just—"
"But she's n-not—" she hiccupped again, "she's not here!"
"She loved you so much, Rumi. She wanted to take care of you, and it was very..." Celine took a deep, shuddering breath. "It was very sad that she couldn't. But she knew you needed someone, so she asked me to care for you."
Rumi whimpered.
"Rumi-ya, please look at me."
She whimpered again, but sat up to look at her guardian.
"There's my Rumi-ya," she said softly, tracing her thumb along the girl's cheek. It was nice. Soothing.
"Rumi, you are—" her voice was scratchy, and she cleared her throat. She pressed her forehead to Rumi's, so close that Rumi could see the faint scar under her eye.
Why is she crying? Is she sad, too?
"Rumi-ya," she tried again, but her voice broke on the last syllable. She swallowed. "Rumi-ya, you are my baby."
Oh. Rumi hiccupped. "I am?"
She nodded. "Yes, Rumi-ya. You didn't start out as my baby, but you are my baby now." She wiped a stray tear away from Rumi's cheek. "You are my baby. I love you and I will always take care of you. Always."
Celine's eyes glistened, as dark and deep and certain as the night sky that guarded their sleep, and Rumi felt safe again.
Always.
"Oh," Rumi said, voice trembling. "Okay." She hugged her guardian around the neck. "I'm your baby."
"You are," she whispered back, squeezing Rumi around the middle.
I'm your baby.
"CeCe?"
"Hmm?"
"Can I sleep in your bed tonight?"
She chuckled. "Of course, sweet girl." There was no need to ask - Rumi ended up snuggled against her guardian's side most nights. She picked the girl up, turning around to set her on the grown-up-sized bed only a few feet away. Celine retrieved the stuffed bear as Rumi started to burrow under the covers.
"What lullaby would you like me to sing tonight?" she asked, handing Rumi the bear.
Rumi squeezed it gratefully. "Can you sing 'hunters?'"
"Yes, I can." She finished lighting the little candle she kept on the bedside table, switched off the lamp, then sat down next to Rumi on the bed. She took a shaky breath.
"We are hunters, voices strong..."
The song-light threads pulsed into being again, and Celine's voice wrapped around Rumi's heart like a hug.
We were all told the internet is forever, and it can be, but that doesn't automatically include the parts of the internet you care about. If you care about it, but you didn't post it, ARCHIVE IT.
The recording of the first (≈10 years ago) Christmas choir concert I sang in during college, which my alma mater livestreamed on Facebook, is no longer available online. I'd "saved" it to my account a while back, figuring I'd get around to downloading & backing it up at some point. Lo and behold....the recording has now been either privated or taken down completely.
DO NOT PROCRASTINATE DOWNLOADING YOUR MEMORIES. If there are photos or videos of you or your family or your friends that you've bookmarked or saved on socials – memories someone else posted and you don't have a copy of – DOWNLOAD THEM AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.
Been feeding baby goats that a mama rejected, and having Jonathan and Martha Kent thoughts.
Jon and Martha find the Kryptonian ship in their corn field, but when they open it the baby is not well. He’s traveled light years, and even at the fastest speeds, it was days or even weeks. What fluid was sustaining him has been gone for some time.
They work a farm. They know what a sick baby looks like.
They take the baby inside anyway. It’s far too late for anything to be open, so they break out the milk replacer for the livestock. The bottle they find has had a goat kid sucking on it, but they wash it good, because what other choice do they have?
The baby doesn’t take to the bottle well. He barely eats.
They both know a lack of appetite is a death knell.
“I can’t watch a baby die,” Martha says. She’s done it before. She and Jon struggled to have kids. The closest they got — well. It’s a hard memory for them both.
“I know, love.” Jon’s a good old country boy. He grew up being told it’s a man’s job to take the burden. He’ll take it now. “Go to bed. I’ll stay with him.”
Sure, they both know Martha won’t sleep, but at least she won’t have to see.
Jon takes the wee babe out onto the porch. He tries to poke more milk down him. Rubs his chest, bounces him, pushes the bottle past his lips, every damn thing he can do. The hours are long and hard, but he would never forgive himself if he didn’t try.
The baby continues to fade.
The eastern sky starts to lighten.
“I’m sorry, little fellow,” Jonathan whispers. It’s not long now. He can feel it in his bones. He’s held plenty of animals as they died. He’s waiting for that long last exhale. “Sorry you came all this way and this is your welcome. Can’t even enjoy the sunrise.”
He told himself he wouldn’t cry until the boy was gone. Wasn’t fair, that his last moments would be a man crying instead of comforting him, but Jon does his best to do both at the same time. He cradles the poor little thing even as his shoulders shake.
The sun breaks over the horizon, and light floods the porch. Jon closes his eyes against it and his tears.
It’s a hiccup that is the first sign something changed. Then the wiggling.
Jon nearly drops the baby in shock.
When he looks down, the little boy sure hasn’t died. He’s got this rosy little glow to his cheeks and his eyes are bright. He’s throwing those little hands around like he’s trying to figure out how they work, but he seems to be trying to reach for the sun.
Jon just stares at him until the baby gets frustrated enough with his clumsy limbs that he opens his mouth to tell the world about it.
The baby’s cry is so powerful Jon falls right out of his rocker. It’s a miracle he doesn’t launch the poor thing.
Only thing he can think to do with a screaming baby that’s about to take his eardrums out is shove that bottle right in that open mouth.
The little boy shuts right up and clings to the bottle for dear life as he drinks with a fury.
When Martha comes stumbling out wild-eyed in her jammies, Jon’s sitting on the porch with a grin as bright as the dawn despite the fact his ears are still ringing.
may I interest you a mini huntrix comic I made back when the movie first dropped? 👀
here it is >:3
they are so precious to me I can't even put it into words, nowadays I'm not as brainrotted as I was a few months ago, but that doesn't mean I no longer love them <333
I’m seeing a lot of people saying this post changed their brain chemistry, and as a neuroscientist I wanted to say yes!!! Yes it does!
Wanting something requires dopamine signaling, but liking something doesn’t.
If you have a mental illness/disorder that affects dopamine, you might feel that you don’t want to do the things that you like. You do still like them. You will appreciate having done them.
Let your likes guide you.
(If you want to read more, here’s one experimental paper about it. https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC5171207/ This theory called the incentive-sensitization theory was originally created to explain behaviors in addiction but can be applied elsewhere as well)
Rewards are both ‘liked’ and ‘wanted’, and those two words seem almost interchangeable. However, the brain circuitry that mediates the psych
saying this in a soft tone but i dislike this presentation of artemis 2 in the least political way possible as a wholesome and uncomplicated win for humanity as a whole like it's not american propagandism of the highest and most vulgar degree
I think it’s understandable to reach this conclusion, and I recognize that, as an American, I may seem to be a very biased source here. However, I would encourage you to do a little research into Artemis, because, for all our faults, this is actually a venture that has facilitated the cooperation and goodwill of over 60 countries, not just the U.S.
Artemis is a multi year project which will consist of several stages and missions. The goal of Artemis is to venture further into space, which will help with future missions to Mars. Who benefits from this? Quite literally, everyone on earth. Not only is space exploration and the science that guides it essential for helping us grow and evolve as a species, but it also helps us to study avenues to address climate change, find and create new medicines, and more.
The thing about Artemis is that it’s a global venture, not just an American venture. According to NASA, “Space agencies from Germany, South Korea, Saudi Arabia, and Argentina…” have added data trackers to Artemis to collect measurements that will help them build their own lunar exploration vehicles. Additionally, over 60 nations have signed the Artemis Accords, which establish guidelines for cooperation between nations on sharing information, assist any astronaut in need regardless of nationality, mitigate space debris, and more.
Look. It’s not perfect, and we should be skeptical of things in the media and that are government funded. But you’ve got to focus on the shit that is actually problematic. There’s plenty to be outraged at the US for right now and we know it. God knows I’m out at the marches and demonstrations and doing what I can. But Artemis? Artemis is something GOOD we can offer. Artemis is proof that we still have the capacity for global cooperation and that we still have respect for science. To me, that proves that we’re not beyond saving.
I think it’s wise to be skeptical. But I also think you’ve got to let us get it right sometimes. That’s the only thing that will make us want to fix the whole thing in the end.
As an autistic/adhd person going through the job search process I’ve learned to phrase my autistic/adhd traits as corporate friendly things. Here’s some examples:
I have trouble reading between the lines and picking up on implicit information? Actually, I’ve learned the importance of giving and receiving precise, specific instructions in order to avoid time consuming miscommunications.
I’m easily bored with only one task? Actually, I have a curious mind and thrive in places with a wide range of tasks as I prefer dynamic environments where I can contribute to many projects.
I have trouble with white lies that are merely social niceties? Actually, I prioritize a transparent work environment where we can tackle issues head-on.
This way I don’t have to lie, but rather just spin my truth in a way that’s palatable to them.
This is a personal annoyance of mine but I don’t like it when a person has an inner self that actively fights against them. This pops up in A/B/O a lot but it also shows up in werewolf/ other monster fics. Mostly it’s in the narrative as ‘their inner X was pleased but they fought against that’ or whatever.
But I REALLY don’t like it when it’s used in KPDH fics for Rumi. I just don’t like the idea that Rumi is anything other than just Rumi; there’s no demon side or human side— there’s only her. It feels cheap to reduce whatever demon instincts or attributes she does hide as being something completely separate from herself, if that makes sense. 
ellievsbear
prguitarman
gummygunk
2087
turnnoffyourmind
